


Lesser Evils

by Dyed_Red



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bad Guys Made Them Do It, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Episode Related, Episode: s05e01 Sympathy for the Devil, M/M, Not A Fix-It, kind of the opposite tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:06:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28238178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dyed_Red/pseuds/Dyed_Red
Summary: “So you’re just gonna, what – torture us for an hour while your guys hightail it to Buffalo? That’s your master plan here?”“Oh I can do a lot in an hour or two, Sammy. Like having your surrogate daddy here carve Dean a new face. Like backsliding you off your pretty bandwagon. Like…Seeing how far big brother will go for his sweet baby Sam.”
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Comments: 12
Kudos: 66





	Lesser Evils

It’s been a blur since they got dumped on that airplane. Dean hasn’t slept in approximately 30 hours and there’s a real fear of hallucination starting if he doesn’t catch a solid four sometime very soon.

Who’s got time to sleep when the apocalypse is starting?

There was Chuck’s place and douchebag angels, Cass is apparently pink mist and Sam’s apparently making hex bags now. It’s gotta be some serious mojo to make a bag that hides them from angels and demons both, too. Dean’s stomach turns thinking about what might be in the leather pouches Sam put together, about who he learned it from.

Not that he’s capable of even thinking Sam’s name right now without a fiery hot dryness in his chest, warm summer wind in Arizona kind of burn. Can hardly look at him either, for all he hasn’t let his brother get more than a foot from his side since Ruby’s blood poured over his fingers.

Sam keeps trying to apologize and Dean’s going to break something – break _them_ – if Sam manages to spit it out. Fuck. He can’t –

He just fucking can’t.

Dean's so tired he can hardly stand straight but he can't fucking sleep when he tries. Can’t get his eyes to close after gropy superfan salivating over Sam’s pecs finally leaves, turning over the cryptic message about Michael’s sword in his mind. Can’t stop hearing Chuck’s words other on repeat.

_Your eyes went black._

Sam's voice, soft and shamed: _I_ _didn’t know._

Dean's chest is tight.

 _I didn’t know_.

His eyes are burning.

 _I didn’t know_.

If he closes them, will Sam still be there when wakes up? Will Sam still be Sam?

He can’t even think right, not really. Keeps tasting bile in the back of his throat. Can’t process any of it so his head is high-frequency static and noise, snippets of thoughts and dreams and ideas and none of them, not a single one good. Enter Sandman can't even drown it out.

 _No shakes, no fever. It’s like whoever put me on that plane cleaned me right up_.

It’s good. Deans tells himself it’s good. Tells himself Sam not hitting withdrawals, no hallucinations -- it’s all good. Last time that shit damn near killed Sam. This is so much better than watching him seize, throw himself around with his powers. So much better than killing him with that. Doesn’t have to worry he’ll die human. One less thing to worry about. It’s good, it’s -

It also means the angels or whoever the fuck saved them could’ve done that for Sam all along. Also means Sam gets off scot-free—

He shakes his head. Not even true. The apocalypse is as far from free as it comes. And Sam’s swimming in – in something he can’t fix. Pain, even that detox – that’d be kinder. Dean knows what it means to break a seal, the first one (the last one). He knows what Sam’s going through.

He wishes that’s what he was angry about. Scared, fuck, it’s _Lucifer_ , but that’s not –

He stares at the ceiling, lights from the window as scant cars drive by, the occasional holler. The Regent Inn is not a reputable location, nor is the part of town they ducked into. He’s on top of the bedspread, fully dressed except his jacket. Sam kicked his boots at least, turned away from Dean, back big and cold. Dean doubts he’s sleeping either.

Bobby gets there in the morning, gets them with a smile and god but he's a sight for sore eyes, a hug Dean needs. Maybe tonight, with Bobby around to keep a lookout. Maybe then he’ll be able to drop off. He’s got a thin hope that this place will be safe enough, secure enough, that with Bobby watching out and he can scrape together enough shut-eye to keep him going for another few days.

Dean breathes easier when Bobby’s around, normally. Can let go, because Bobby’s got it – got his back. Whatever crops up, Bobby will handle it. He always does, with that cantankerous and ornery way that’s come around to being soothing. Normally.

Except the itch between Dean’s shoulder blades doesn’t relax, and after the greetings Bobby asks and Sam opens his goddamn trap, and out comes his guilt, pouring naked into the room:

“Lilith was the final seal. I killed her and I set Lucifer free.”

Dean tries to stop him but Sam spilled it anyway and now Dean can feel cotton surging up, swallowing his brain in white noise and Lars Ulrich's drum beats taking up a steady beat in the back of his brain, his spine. And Sam just won't. shut. up.

“You guys warned me about Ruby, the demon blood, I didn’t listen. I brought this on.”

Dean’s hands are shaking, fists so tight at his sides they hurt, breathing slow because he –

“You’re goddamn right you didn’t listen. You were reckless, selfish, and arrogant.”

Dean’s eyes shoot between them. Bobby, angry as he’s ever seen him. More snarl around his nose than he even got with Dad, jesus. Worst fears swimming up Dean's throat, new flavor of bile on the back of his tongue. He didn’t know he had new ones to find.

“I’m sorry.” Sam’s voice cracks, obviously gutted and Dean –

His throat’s still stuck. Head's pounding. And Bobby’s quick with his reply.

“This kind of thing don’t get forgiven, boy. By some miracle, we pull this off? I want you to lose my number. Y’understand me?”

_You walk out that door, don’t you ever come back._

One of the worst nights of Dean’s life playing on repeat in front of his eyes. Nothing’s changed in all these years. He’s still here, watching on the sidelines, no peace to keep but he still ain’t got a side. Can’t have one, can’t because Bobby is _right_. Sam didn’t fucking listen. Didn’t listen to either of them, didn’t listen to Dean. He walked out that door (every door, always leaving him, always _leaving_ \- ) with a goddamn demon. He chose Ruby over Dean. A _demon_ over his brother.

There’s no going back from that even if Dean wishes he could. He’s never been so gutted in his life. Flagstaff, college, law school interview, finding Dad, now Ruby. Dean’s always chasing after him, always. Just one time he came back, rescued Dean from a fucking scarecrow god, and he’s not kidding himself about the fact that it’s because of anything except Sam had nowhere else worth going.

“There’s an old church nearby.” Sam’s voice isn’t steady. “Maybe I’ll go read some of the lore books ther – ”

“No.” Dean’s voice finds its way out on a snap. Both heads turn to him. Sam’s eyes, wide and stupid hopeful and Dean can’t meet them, jaw clenches to twitching point, shoulders set for a fight, looks at Bobby instead. His eyes are narrowed, asking a question. Dean focuses up.

“We’ll cover more ground with what Bobby brought. We know it’s good. Time matters and you’re the fastest reader.” He picks up the first book in his reach, chucks it at Sam. Watches him catch it with an oomf. “Get reading.”

His eyes blur on the pages, book in and book out. Bobby steps out for takeout, side-eyes Sam on his way, comes back silent with stuff from the Chinese place on the corner. Sam doesn’t eat. Dean pretends not to care. Bobby’s eyes spell hate and Sam’s frame, curled too-big and looking small in the corner, spells contrition.

Too damn late for that.

Doesn’t help that Chuck’s vision doesn’t make any damn sense. A castle on top of a hill of 42 dogs? He’s never heard of anything like it, it shouldn’t niggle in the back of his mind but for some reason it does. Maybe that’s just the sleep deprivation though.

Sam's going through books on numerology, significance of 42, big brain shit. Bobby's skimming the biblical lore, his expertise. Dean's been going through the dregs, long shots, leaving hellhounds to Bobby and instead focusing on castles, churches, folklore. When his eyes burn he gets up for a beer, stretches, grabs out Dad’s journal. Anything on dogs?

Dogs.

Sunofa –

“I’ve got it.”

He feels their eyes both snap to him, sees Sam untangle himself from the corner, move to standing and Bobby does too, chair scraping on the floor as he pushes back from the table.

“What?” he moves closer to Dean and Dean plucks it out from the page, puts it together in his mind. “Castle Storage, 42 Rover Hill.” He turns the receipt over in his hands. Buffalo. “You get it – 42 Rovers, dogs? Castle on a hill?”

“You think the _Michael Sword_ is in Dad’s storage locker?” Sam’s voice is all skeptical and Dean glares up at him. It smooths his face over immediately, stubbornness fades to submission, too easy. Dean looks to Bobby, who’s got his eyebrows raised.

“Why not?” Dean asks, not directed at Sam. “It’s Dad – he was into this shit. He might’ve thought it was a cursed object, artefact. He kept all sorts of things in his storage lockups. We got nothing else and this fits perfectly.”

He’s smiling, relieved, when Bobby sizes it up and nods. “Works for me.”

He’s still smiling for the next half second when Bobby dives, sharp and sudden, across the room with a speed and grace Dean didn’t know he possessed. He’s yelling “ _NOW_ ” on his dive, slams hard and fast into a stand by the door, and Dean’s still turning, still trying to find the danger, process what’s happening, when Bobby’s fingers curl around the demon-killing knife and his eyes turn black.

Fuck.

His legs and feet are sliding automatic into defensive pose, ready to tussle, Sam doing the same three feet from him, and that’s about when the door slams open with a cracked splinter of wood and four more demons show up.

Double fuck. That’s too many.

He glances at Sam, nods, and the fight is vicious and short-lived. Dean’s cheek is sore from a landed punch, kick to the gut caught him hard, furniture broken and then he’s thrown across the room by an invisible force, slams hard against a wall and realizes that there’s a major player in the room with some actual force. Just what they needed.

“Now Dean, I always knew you were a big dumb dim slow-witted pain the ass, but I gotta admit…” Whoever she is, she takes the demon killing knife from the black-eyes possessing Bobby, smiles wide. Her voice is lilting, hair long, skinny brunette in a leather jacket. If she wasn’t a demon he might be into it. She’s glancing at Sam, up and down, altogether too interested, before looking back at him, “I never knew you were so VIP. Sam maybe. But you?”

He growls, tries and fails to drag himself off the wall. Sam’s on his knees, got two guys on him, on holding each arm wrenched behind him at a bad angle. He’s breathing hard and ready to fight, waiting for an opening.

Dean’s eye refocus on the woman.

“You’re supposed to be the expendable one. Good thing I never did kill you when I had the chance, or we wouldn’t get this little reunion.”

“Ruby,” he spits it out. How the fuck she’s even still alive –

“Wrongo, Deano. Go back further.”

He tilts his head, remembers that Ruby was never strong enough to hold him like this. He figures it out, eyes wide, but it’s Sam who says it first, breathes it out confident and stunned at once,

“Meg.”

“Bingo, baby.” She turns to wink at Sam.

“Giving me another shot at killing you,” Dean grits out, pulls futile at his bonds with a twisted up grin. “How generous of you.”

“Dean, Dean Dean.” He’s got her attention again, mission accomplished, but she moves in close. He can feel the heat of her meatsuit radiating off her and she tips the knife under his chin, forcing his head back with it. He’s reminded of every other time a demon’s been in his space like this, her so-called father most of all. “Gotta say, I have wanted to rip your face off for a long, _long_ time.”

So close he can feel her breath, looking at his face like it’s a fresh steak and she’s a cartoon dog. He swallows.

“Yeah well, get in line.”

“Oh I’m at the front of the line, baby.” The knife is gone, then, but her hand is in his hair – twisting, mean – and her mouth, her tongue – he screws up his face, eyes closed, denying it even as it’s happening. Hazards of the job, and she always was a bit of a kinky bitch. Doesn’t mean he likes it, doesn’t mean he can stand the feel of her tongue in his mouth.

She pulls back and he lets the shudder of disgust go through him. Smacks his lips, runs his mouth just to fuck with her. “What is that, peanut butter?”

She’s not amused, drops his hair, a moment later his body too but he’s caught on the lunge forward, demon-Bobby and the other guy grabbing him up, hauling him over to where she’s sidling her way to Sam.

“Now you on the other hand,” she points the knife to Sam and he tenses, back straighter, leans back into the demons holding him. “We really owe you a fruit basket, Sammy.”

"Pass."

She kneels in close to Sam and Dean snaps out the first words that come to mind,

“Yeah yeah, mazel tov on the whole Lucifer thing, feel free to drop all flower deliveries with reception on your way out.”

She chuckles, doesn’t even look back at him, squatting right in front of Sam and blocking his view of his brother. “Always running his mouth, your brother.”

He can tell Sam’s leaning back, see the tip of his chin where it's jutted. Gotta be that stubborn, pissed off look he gets. “What’d you _want_ , Meg?”

“Me? Well, I’d start with the Michael Sword, but your surrogate Daddy over there’s already texting the address to our friends across the continent. Otherwise,” she grips Sam’s jaw and Dean snarls, “I wouldn’t mind seeing what your big bad demon powers can do.”

She kisses Sam too then, just as bruising as she kissed Dean, and his mind is flashing back to the first time she held them, writhing on Sam’s lap and sucking his neck while they were tied up. That was before, long before Dean had any concerns about Sam getting hot for a demon hag.

Sam bucks, though, struggles in the hold, throws himself back and Meg relents, lets him go. Dean breathes easier.

“Not so strong without your _juice_ , are ya’ Sammy?” Strange drawl with that girlish voice, southern maybe. Where’d she pick this body up?

“Screw. You.”

 _Great comeback, Sammy_. Dean grits his teeth.

“You could you know. Ruby’s not the only one who knows how to treat a guy.” Her hands are on Sam’s front, leaning in even as he’s obviously pushing back, can’t escape the guys holding him. Dean throws himself forward and his arms are both wrenched painful and hard for his trouble, gasps against the fire in his joints and muscles at the stretch and twist of it. Fuck demon strength.

But Meg glances over her shoulder at him, come hither eyes and wicked smile, and any minute her attention isn’t on Sam is a win in his books.

“Jealous, baby?” She leans across the divide and Dean realizes how close he’s made it, how far he's stretched toward Sam, and then her lips are on his again, hand in his hair, tongue back and he pulls away but her grip is iron and he’s not going anywhere till she lets up. Disgust curls south until she does, after a moment, tongue having swept over his and he realizes too late that the new flavor from her mouth is from Sam. Coffee.

“Seriously did you have a peanut-butter sandwich or – ”

Her slap stings like a bitch, turns his head with the force of it. He inhales, shakes it off, and she stands up. Good. Probably means she’s done with the sexual mindfuckery at least.

“I guess playtime’s over.” She nods to one of her boys and he grabs Sam’s jaw and Dean’s stomach drops, heart races. He’s got a clear line of sight now, can lock onto Sam’s wide eyes, fighting the grip and watching – Dean follows his gaze – Meg cut a slice down her arm.

“You give me that,” Sam’s voice is muffled by the grip, “’n I’m gonna kill every last one’ve you.”

“Is that so?” The knife gets placed on the table and her empty hand grips tight to Sam’s hair, tilts his head up, brings the bloody arm closer to his lips. Sam’s trying to fight back and Dean’s throat is closing, sick sick sick to his stomach, not again, can’t lose Sam over this shit, not now not again not –

“ _STOP_!” He shouts, out of options, desperate. Meg pauses, glances down at him, eyebrow arched. He goes for broke, fuck. “Please.” Never let them see you beg.

“Why should I?”

His eyes flick to Sam, nostrils flare and chest rearing with each heavy inhale, temptation right there so close to his mouth. All he’d have to do is lean forward, slide his tongue out. Dean saw him maul a guy’s neck, red smeared around his mouth like a vampire, messy with it, wild. Sam’s resisting, trying. It's gotta count for something. Has to. Dean’s chest aches and he fights back a sting in his eyes. Not the damn time for that.

“Well for starters,” he tries, lips screwed up too cocky, too glib and demon-Bobby wrenches his arm. He topples forward with it, shouts, breathes through the pain but the guy doesn’t let up so he keeps talking, voice raspy with hurt. “For _starters_ he really will fucking kill you, and I’m gonna help, and any sense of self-preservation you got says that’s a bad idea. You wanna kill us – you wanted kill us and you’d a done it already. So if you’re just here to keep us out of the game until you get that fucking sword – ” A twist to his arm and Dean’s forehead is on the ground, panting around the stretch and burn. Fuck.

“My my, not just a pretty face after all.” Teasing. Admitting. Almost too easy, and he doesn’t know if it’s a trap, if there’s another layer, or if it’s really all that uncomplicated. Her boots click on the hardwood and he tracks them in his limited field of vision.

“If you’re not here to kill us… there’s gotta be a reason.” Sam’s voice intones somewhere above him, more calm now, resonant in that way it gets.

“Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart. You two chuckleheads are in the thick of this. _He_ has something the angels want, and _you_ raised Lucifer from the Cage. I’ve wanted you dead since the day we met, but I can make an exception. Besides – killing you means you don’t suffer, and I’m still _pissed_ from the last time you sent me to Hell.”

“So you’re just gonna, what – torture us for an hour while your guys hightail it to Buffalo?" Sam's scathing voice, dripping in I'm Better Than You levels of scorn. "That’s your master plan here?”

“Oh I can do a _lot_ in an hour or two, Sammy. Like having your surrogate daddy here carve Dean a new face. Like backsliding _you_ off your pretty bandwagon. Like…” her toe nudges the side of Dean’s head, prodding just a little. “Seeing how far big brother will go for his sweet baby Sam.”

A sinking feeling spreads through Dean, tension in its wake, stomach tight.

“After all, big brother was practically _begging_ ,” she’s squatting down again, hand mussing up his hair, shivers down his scalp, “for me not to slip his little brother a mickey. Isn’t that right?” She lifts Dean’s head up with a solid grip in the short strands; the demons ease off his arms enough for her to raise him so he can look her in the eye. “I remember,” her voice drops low, reminds him of her previous form, “how ready you were to cover up murder, to hide away bloody shirts. I remember how desperate big brother Dean was to save Sammy. How far would you go for him, I wonder?”

He keeps his eyes hard, jaw set, daring her. There’s no answer to that question – bottomless pit, unfathomable depth. His soul.

She draws her hand back from his scalp, stands up to sneer down at him.

“Boys,” her voice is directed at her companions, not them. “Let’s play a little game. Show Sam how _grateful_ we are for his tribute to the cause. Give him each a little _gift_ from ourselves." A moment, wicked curl as she raises an eyebrow at Dean. "We’ll have to take turns if we don’t want to break him, but he has two holes after a –”

“You _bitch_!!” and “I’ll fucking kill you – ” Dean tries to throw himself forward at the same time as Sam does, both snarling, and Meg laughs, high and tinkling.

“I’ll rip your face off if you even think about it,” Dean continues his threat. Sam picks it up,

“I’ll kill you slow, Meg, and each of them if they try it.” Sam’s eyes flick to the demons in the room with them, seeming his size, big to the point of massive, threatening low and mean in his throat.

“We'll see about that.”

Her demons haul Sam back and Dean shouts for his brother, shouts his name but that’s useless, no fucking good and he’s fucking – his heart’s in his throat, eyes wide, ready to wrench both shoulders from their sockets if he has to. They can’t – they won’t –

They haul Sam back by his jacket – lug still had it on this whole time, curled up in that corner of his - strip it off his shoulders and he grapples with them, kicking and getting himself bruised. They pull the jacket from his arms and then he – he goes to bite. Lips back and teeth out and Dean’s throat wrenches around the word “ _NO!_ ” and Sam’s teeth close on air, the demon alerted from Dean’s shout. Dean’s chest loosens right until Sam’s eyes land on his, just for a second, wounded.

Fuck.

“Gag him,” Meg says, voice serious. She tosses the demon a strip of cloth from her pocket. Bitch came prepared.

“I’ll fucking kill you,” Dean snarls toward the demon currently cuffing Sam’s left wrist to the busted old radiator. That thing's bolted down, not going anywhere, not without super strength. The demon doesn’t even acknowledge him, clasps the other one with a second cuff. The other guy's got the cloth between Sam’s teeth, tying it off. Both too close for Sam to kick, at his sides and out of range.

Sam's bound then, bound and gagged and air leaves Dean in a rush.

There’s no – there’s no exit route here. Cass is dead. The other angels fucked them, sent Sam to that church to break the seal, to die. They’re no more likely to help than any of the demons in the room, just as likely to get some ideas about how to hurt Sam and Dean and get them to play their games. Bobby's possessed. No friends left. No one coming to save them.

He’s breathing too fast. So’s Sam.

“You first,” Meg nods to one of the demons holding Dean and realizes it’s –

“No,” he breathes. Sam’s pushing back with his heels, trying to get away, shouting into his gag. But the angle his wrists are cuffed at, he can only get his head and the top of his shoulders even off the ground, pressed against the cold metal of that radiator behind him. And meanwhile that demon steps closer, moving in on Sam. That demon in Bobby’s skin.

“I’ll make a deal!” Dean shouts it loud, doesn’t even care at who – whoever’ll deal, maybe. His eyes are stinging. 

Meg holds up a hand at demon-Bobby, who’s got one hand palming his dick over his jeans, leering down at Sam. Dean’s gonna throw up if he has to watch that.

“A deal, Dean? We’re not taking souls today.”

He glances at his brother. Red-faced, spitting mad, pretty features. Depending on him. Only one of these bastards holding Dean now, not that it makes much difference right now. Meg’s calling all the shots and no easy exit even if he gets free.

“You said – what would I do? How far would I go? You keep your demons – all of them, hands off. You too. No one touches Sam. No blood either. You get – whatever you want from me.”

“ _Whatever_ I want?”

“Anything.”

Sam makes a noise into his gag, a shout or a denial, telling him to stop being stupid no doubt. Dean doesn’t care. He just got Sam back, he’s not letting these demons –

“I want you to do it.”

He swallows. Tries to make sense of that. Comes up empty. “Do what?”

“Don’t play coy – ”

“I’m not fucking _playing_ – what the hell do you want me to do?”

“Sam.”

It takes another second before its clicks. He’s pretty sure the blood drains from his face. He knows his muscles go slack even where a demon’s still holding his arm.

“No.” He shakes his head. “No way.”

“Five of us, one of you.”

His eyebrows go up, scoffs in disbelief, horror. Glances at Sam, shaking his head, then away because fuck Sam, there’s no way Dean’s not gonna –

He breathes slow, in and out. Looks down.

“I’m the only one who touches him?”

“If you’re willing to do it right.” She steps closer to him. “If you do it properly. I want Sammy naked and debauched, fucked hard till you finish.”

Jesus. “Why?”

She leans down in front of him, tilts his chin up with soft fingers. Smiling like he really is that dumb.

“Because I hate you. And if I don’t get to kill you or Sam for all the shit you’ve put me through – for killing my father, Azazel, and my _brother_ even if he was a prick – then the next best thing I’m going to do is make sure you suffer. So either you fuck your baby brother, or you watch as his surrogate daddy does, and then the rest of us taking a victory lap. Either way I win.”

“Take me instead. Let them fuck me.” It’s shameful, quiet in his throat but – he’d do it. He could take it. Let Sam watch. A better deal. She laughs though, cold and cruel.

“Oh Dean. You’re old news. Sloppy seconds.”

He drops his eyes and she lets him, drops his chin. He tries and fails to suppress the hell memories threatening to crawl up out of a quiet box in his head. Hell doesn’t even feel real some days, but all of it was, in its own way.

“Now or never, Deano.”

Sam shouts, muffled, seven feet from him. Dean ignores it, swallows.

“Deal.”

Meg kisses him, deal-sealing kind. He lets her, and of all things she doesn’t slip him tongue this time. Then she steps back, cat got the canary smile. The demon releases his arm on a glance from her and Dean’s heart makes its presence known as it descends through his torso, swallowed whole by what he’s about to do to Sam.

He stands on shaky legs and the demons all give him berth, extricating themselves from Sam’s sides. Demon-Bobby doesn’t look pissed at all by the turn of events and Dean wonders if this was somehow Meg’s plan all along. Doesn’t make sense, but then, right now nothing does.

Sam’s trying to catch his eye and Dean dodges it, can’t look. Sam's mostly laid out on the floor except his head and shoulders bunched up against the radiator, that messy mop of hair all thrown out of place thanks to Meg, cuffed wrists at each side of his head. But he doesn’t try to kick, doesn’t buck away, when Dean stops between his legs and drops to his knees.

“Gonna do this gentle, Sam. Not gonna hurt one bit.”

A very muffled _D’n_ makes it out from the gag. He breathes in, steals himself, and moves for Sam’s belt.

“Get his shirts off.” Dean pauses, looks toward Meg askance. “I said naked, dumb dumb. I know you’re slow but it was only a few minutes ago.”

“You wanna hand me the key to his cuffs so I can?”

"Figure it out. Rip it off if you gotta.”

He glares. They go through shirts like DiCaprio goes through supermodels, and here she’s making him waste a perfectly good one.

“The outer one too?” Twenty bucks for flannel that nice at Goodwill.

“Just push it back.”

He squares his shoulders, does as he’s told. Gets his hands on either side of Sam’s over-shirt and pulls it open and wide. Grips the base of his t-shirt in both fists and gives a quick, mean jerk, and the fabric tears between his hands. Rips up all the way to the collar and he pulls it to the sides like the over-shirt.

“All the way off, Dean.”

He rolls his eyes, tosses her an expression that screams really, _really_? She taps her foot. Fuck, whatever. He keeps ripping, has to push aside Sam’s over-shirt to tear out the sleeves, plucks the fabric from under his back and tries not to touch Sam too much. Skin's too warm, too smooth. Dean leans back to drop the wasted scraps to the side.

Then he leans back on his heels and it’s painfully clear why Meg wanted that. It’s obscene. Sam’s wrists cuffed to either side of him, shirtsleeves fallen open so his forearms are bare, no undershirt so his chest and the tapered length of his torso are on display. The way the shirt off his shoulders somehow makes him look even more naked than if he wasn’t wearing it all all, collarbones jutted, tanned chest drawing the eye and his ridiculously cut abs, all of it making him look like some kind of model in a kinky porn mag, Buff Bondage Beauties.

Dean clears his throat, hands moving south again to Sam’s belt, unbuckling it and erasing his thoughts, autopilot, necessity.

“Impatient, aren’t you?” Meg steps closer. He stops, glares hard at her and she holds up both her hands in a gesture of peace, retreat, smile dancing in her eyes. “Don’t skip to the main event, Dean. A girl likes a little foreplay.”

His expression shutters, face muscles all tight in anger. Hands still on his brother’s belt.

“Time to give your best girl a little attention, a little TLC. Get her in the mood. Why don’t you kiss his neck, move down from there?”

“And why would I do that?” Clenched teeth, voice low.

“Because our deal was that you would do it _right._ That includes touching, numbnuts. Unless you’d rather I help touch baby brother for you?”

He growls, slams his hand down next to Sam’s side between his brother and this absolute witch of a demon. Her hands raise again in mock surrender, dark hair wicked as her cocky smile. “I didn’t think so.”

Touching, performing. Demonic mindfuckery, that's all this is.

He huffs, turns back to the business at hand. Sam’s adam’s apple juts on a hard swallow, muscle in his jaw works as he bites into the gag, snarl curled around his nose. Dean exhales, focuses. It’s him or a demon, a bunch of demons. Him or them.

He’s the lesser evil.

He leans over his brother, rests his left on the ground next to Sam’s ribs, leans down and puts his lips on the jut of Sam’s clavicle. Sam turns his head away, neck flexes, and Dean’s right hand moves soft, soothing over Sam’s side, his ribs, his abs, kisses his way up his neck. A little suction, a little teeth. Sam’s breathing like a raging bull, pissed. Dean kisses downward. This isn’t helping. Meg’s probably laughing at them but Dean’s not about to look over his shoulder to check.

_Lesser evil lesser evil lesser evil –_

Sam’s nipples are dusty and they peak under Dean’s fingers, under his tongue. She didn’t tell him to do this, specifically, but he doesn’t really need telling. He knows what she wants to see. For the life of him not sure _why_ she wants to see it except that she’s a sadistic bitch who gets off on rape and mindfucks, but, well, she is a demon. That’s enough.

Sam’s skin tastes of sweat, fine sheen of it, salty. He’s got a bit of hair here, on his pecs, stopped waxing it like a douchebag finally. It tickles Dean’s nose. He tries not to think about it.

Both hands slide down Sam’s sides, like he’d do on a girl, soothing her, riling her up. But Sam’s not a girl and his sides are too much muscle and when Dean gets to his hips his thumbs land almost automatically in the little hollows of them, the divots Dean knows girls go wild over when Sam raises his arms above his head, hips peek out of whatever shirt he’s wearing on the stretch.

He pulls his mouth back from Sam’s left pec, from the salty pebbled nipple wet with his saliva. Just a body. Just any body. Just anybody.

He swallows, hands move back to center on Sam’s belt. His brother’s not hard but he didn’t really expect him to be, not from just that, not in these conditions. He wriggles his hips a little, reflexive attempt at escape but doesn’t move far as Dean gets his belt out of the way, zip open. Careful around Sam’s junk. Meg doesn’t stop him this time and Sam lifts – helpful – as Dean gets his jeans off his hips, moves back as he pulls them down Sam’s legs, stuck at his ankles. Damn.

“All the way naked, Deano,” Meg confirms in his peripheral, more matter of fact than teasing, answering the question caught in his throat. He nods, gets Sam’s laces, pulls each boot off and tries hard to suppress the fact that he’s done this before, done it so many times for Sam over a lifetime. Helped the kid learn to tie his shoes. Helped get his drunk ass to bed and pulled them off for him. This is just like that. Nothing more. Just –

The bile is back in his throat and he takes a second, inhales, and then the socks – Sam’s ankles are so slim it should be criminal, Dean can’t help the thumb he swipes along them, the ball and valley of each, checking if they’re even real – and then the jeans all the way down and off.

He chances a glance up. Sam’s not looking at him. His gaze is off to the side, fixed point, breathing slow. Leaving. Always fucking leaving. If he can’t move his body and run away with it he’ll do it with his mind.

Dean wishes he didn’t hate him for it in this instance but his move is reactive, knee-jerk and stupid. He grabs Sam’s calves and pulls him, fast short distance, drag on the floor, over-shirt rucked up even higher and Sam’s eyes wide, on him – finally on him, here, present – till he reaches the limit of his arms, cuffs clank as they stretch against the radiator and Dean stops pulling. He’s right between Sam’s spread thighs, forced them around himself, nestled in tight against Sam’s groin. Sam’s all the way flat on his back now, over-shirt rucked up high around his biceps, even more helpless looking than a few minutes ago. Even more naked.

Dean doesn’t know what Sam sees in his expression, gazes locked properly for the first time since this shitshow started, first time in a long time it feels like, but his breathing goes from mantra calm, slow and deep, to rabbit-fast, little rise and fall of his chest and his perky nipples and fear, that’s fear, splashed over his features. Eyebrow scrunch of betrayal, disbelief.

Dean looks away first. Coward.

“Take his gag out.”

Dean’s hand was smoothing up Sam’s thigh, soft over coarse hairs, figuring if he’d take his boxers with his pocket knife or move them down, salvage the fabric, and Meg’s voice interrupts. He shoots a glance at her, not even sure if he heard right.

“Why?”

Bitch arches an eyebrow. “Because I said so.”

He doesn’t like where this is going. Giving Sammy a voice right now –

“I’m waiting.”

“I don’t think that’s necessary for your little show.”

Sam’s eyes in his peripheral, disbelieving and indignant.

“I think I’ll be the judge of that. Unless you want one of these demons to kiss your brother instead. Maybe Sam’s a biter.”

The rage he feels is incandescent, fingers digging into the flesh of Sam’s thigh so hard he’ll probably bruise and Dean’s face screws up in hate, anger gnashed behind his teeth. He sighs hard, lets his hand relax, lets his features resolve. Fine. Fuck, whatever. He’s just gotta get this over with.

He turns back to Sam, eyes on his mouth, the fabric obscuring it, hooks a finger from his left into it and pulls it out, down, halo around his neck.

Sam breathes harsh and fast through his mouth, open, and Dean drops down over top him, crushes their mouths together before Sam can do something stupid like _say something_.

Sam makes a – a sound. A surprised little meep, a reactive move back but there’s nowhere to go but the unforgiving floor beneath him. Dean's on his elbows but he moves a hand, frames Sam’s head with it to keep him still and he gives Meg her show. Licks into Sammy’s mouth, dares him to bite off his tongue, hand sliding into all that too-long hair, make sure Sam feels it. Claims. No fucking demon is gonna touch his brother, never again, not after Ruby. And if Dean’s got to stake a claim to make sure that happens –

Sam kisses back, tentative swipes of his tongue. Dean’s eyes slit open, blurry and too close, and Sam’s brows are still screwed up and tight, whole face tight, and he closes them again, slides his tongue along Sam’s. Good. Slides his hand out of Sam's hair, down the side of his neck, over his pecs, tweaks at his nipples before sliding down his front. Sam’s mouth tastes like coffee and burnt sugar and Dean nips at his lip when he pulls his mouth back, sucks it, has a hard time letting it go.

Meg wolf-whistles and Dean’s gonna kill her one day. He’s gonna enjoy doing it.

He moves his mouth down to the red mark he left on Sam’s neck, sucks it again, Sam gasps, arches just a bit. Pocket knife, Dean decides, and slides it out, pulls back and slices the left leg off Sam’s boxers before anyone else in the room can react to the blade. Another meep in his brother’s throat, deeper and more contained now. Dean would’ve just ripped these off except that elastic waist, cuts through it carefully, can't nick his brother's skin. Does the other leg and pulls the scraps away.

Exposed.

Dean’s seen it, probably a thousand times except he’s never really looking. His whole life, from diapers to bathtime to shared changing rooms and spaces, teenage put a sock on the fucking door next time debacles, adult close quarters and too grown up to be embarrassed and red faced over nudity, straight down to cleaning Sam’s corpse, washing his skin everywhere it needed washing.

He’s seen it, knows what Sam looks like soft, hard, and everywhere in between. He’s half-mast now, filling out but just his body responding to what little stimulation Dean gave it, adrenaline probably fighting with panic and confusing his dick as to which way to fly.

Dean spits on his hand, sucks two of his own fingers into his mouth, nudges Sam’s thighs wider with his knees, hoists with his left under Sam’s knee so he gets the picture.

Whole body tense, leg hot under his fingers and clenching like he can expect a knee to his ribs any second and Dean’s eyes shoot to his face. Jaw-ache kind of anger, humiliation. Sam’s set to murder. Dean’s right there with him. But then Sam nods, shakes his head a little in that way he’s got even as he turns his head to the side, jaw flexing as he lifts his leg under Dean’s hand, one then the other, plants both feet on the floor with his knees facing up. Shifts his hips so Dean’s got access to his hole.

Dean’s throat clicks tight and hot, suddenly back in his own body, in the situation above and beyond necessity and anger. Without his permission heat throbs south, shocking. His cock pulses at the sight and that’s not something he wants, disgust curling and unfurling around his insides but it doesn’t seem to be slowing the response, thickening up in his jeans.

He sucks his fingers again for good measure, wets them as best he can, then slides them behind Sam’s balls, scrunches his nose at those really, presses them along his taint and farther back back. He ignores the hitch in Sam’s breath. Middle finger presses against his hole and it’s tight, fucking tight, clenched and that’s gonna hurt like a bitch. _Not helpful, Sam_. Dean circles it, tries to tease it to fluttering, knows Sam’s done anal with a chick at least a couple times and knows he’s smart enough to know how this works.

Sam’s also stubborn enough not to get with the program. Won’t unclench, won’t make this easier on them. Dean exhales slow and forces the finger in anyway, so tight it almost hurts around the single digit. Stupid fucker.

“No chance,” he clears his throat, too raw, tries again with his voice pitched in Meg’s direction, “no chance of a little lube over here?”

He doesn’t think she’s going to answer, thrusts his finger in and out with nothing but spit and sweat, listens to Sam’s labored breathing. Not saying a damn thing, small graces.

“You boys have any kicking around?”

Figures she wouldn’t bring any, but they’re not exactly heavy packers. Dean doesn’t exactly keep it on hand.

“Condom?” He asks instead and Meg outright laughs.

His ears burn a little, hatred down his spine, but he pulls his finger out, spits on it and his forefinger, and presses them both to Sam’s hole. Figures his brother would clench up again at that.

“There’s oil,” Sam’s voice surprises him, Dean’s eyes snap up to his face. Sam’s speaking through a clenched jaw, eyes on the ceiling. Still present, then. “In the kitchenette. Cooking oil.”

Gross. Better than nothing. Sure as shit better than gun oil and he’s pretty sure this shitty by-the-hour motel doesn’t have any complimentary hand lotion laying around.

There’s a pause; Dean glances at Meg. She arches an eyebrow at him, considers it.

“Fine, dumb dumbs.” She nods at one of her goons, who retreats. Dean exhales, would send up a prayer of thanks but who knows who hears that kind of thing. He doesn’t need more witnesses on this.

“In the meantime, why don’t you undress, Dean?” Meg’s lilt comes back. Her newest body has a weird fucking voice, just as much contempt as the last dripping from her words but it’s more naturally sing-song, comes across more competently condescending.

He swallows, moves back a bit, pulls off his over-shirt, he shucks his tee, drops it next to Sam’s form. Doesn’t think about skin on skin. Way too much contact, Sam’s knee brushing his side. Dean’s still between his legs, leans over him a little, won’t pretend it’s not a little protective. Hide him from these monsters, cover as much of Sam's body as he can.

The demon hands the bottle of vegetable oil to Meg. Dean glares, holds out his hand.

“Ah ah, aren’t you gonna say please.”

His lips purse, tired of her shit. “You’ve really got a thing for giving orders.”

“And for seeing you taken down a peg.”

No shame, naturally. He doesn’t make the requisite pegging joke, not when it might give her actual ideas. Instead, gritted, “please.”

“What about a kiss for Sammy?”

“ _Meg_.”

She shakes the bottle, smiling. He seethes, plants both hands on the ground this time, limits his contact with Sam’s skin. Brief eye contact and he slams his own closed, pushes their lips together a second time. Breathes for a moment there, resting, before deepening it, tilting his head. Sweeps his tongue against Sam’s lips, feels his brother open up for him, slides it in and against Sam’s, again, then pulls back. Saliva strand between them snaps, lands on Sam’s chin. It’s obscene. Dean resists the urge to lick it, jeans tight.

He holds out his hand to Meg without looking, eyes hard on his brother’s face. Sam’s scared, dazed. _Trusting_. Open, vulnerable. Angry. Fucking scared. That’s what’s coming through the most, slant of his eyebrows up, wide intensity to his eyes. Just like when he was a kid, when Dean actually had all the answers. He's got no clue how the hell they even got here, tries to project some kind of reassurance he doesn't feel. 

The bottle lands in his hand and he moves back, coats his fingers. Not exactly made for this but yeah, it’ll do. His fingers go in easier, two of them, fuck in tight and force Sam to open. His brother’s breathing kicks up again, clenched out breaths between his teeth. Dean rubs his thumb along the perineum, wants to relax him, doesn’t want it to feel too good but he’s gonna injure Sam if he doesn’t ease this just a little.

“Any day now, Dean.”

He hangs his head, ignores Meg and keeps going, scissors his fingers. Wants to get a third in there but they’ve got an audience that’s run low on patience. Wants to crook and slide them along Sam’s prostate, too, make this good for him. Except if he makes Sam feel pleasure from getting raped he’s gonna kill Dean for doing that to him, so he doesn’t dwell too long on that desire.

Dean pulls his fingers out, slides his belt open, his zip down. Wishes he wasn’t hard just from this but his body’s not exactly picky. He pulls his jeans and boxers down under his balls, bunched up, but Meg doesn’t complain that he’s not naked, just hums. He glances again at Sam’s face and wishes he didn’t. He’s staring at the ceiling but dread’s all over his features, plain as day. Trying to be strong. Fuck.

He’s beautiful.

Dean hates himself.

He lifts Sam’s hips and Sam goes along, all rippling muscle and long abdomen, doesn’t move his gaze or face but his body responds easy to Dean’s hands. He gets both knees up around Dean’s ribs, should probably have them over his shoulders for their height difference but that’s too much, too far. Sam’s thighs are strong, hold fast and ankles lock behind Dean, the only sign of compliance, really. There’s a stab inside him. Sammy wouldn’t be complying with the demons doing this to him. He’d be teeth and fire, kicks and swears, violent bucking.

Dean tells himself it’s not his fault but he knows that’s not true. He’s the one between Sam’s legs, lining his dick up, thick and full despite the slosh in his stomach, the acid creeping up the back of his throat. Sam’s hole is waiting and his body doesn’t care if he’s halfway ready to vomit. Seems to be feeding off it.

 _I taught you well,_ Alistair’s voice shivers up his spine.

Dean clamps down on it, gets the tip past the impossible clench then cleaves into Sam on a solid single press in – deep, thick, unrelenting. Sam might be big as a porn star but Dean’s thick as one and Sam’s breath is punched from his lungs, gasped exhale, shock. Dean doesn’t slow, pulls out and thrusts back in hard, just as deep – deeper. Sam makes a noise, back of his throat, choked out and desperate. Again, again. Little noises, punched out, denied. Again, fuck, higher that time. It’s so -

Dean remembers what rended flesh feels like under his fingers, flayed and open so he can sink his hands into the organs, bloody and wet and so delicious when it makes them scream. _Perfect_.

He tilts his body forward, body pressed all along Sam’s, so much skin, unbroken and whole and real and not in hell, not there, not dying over and over again under his fingers. He puts his lips to Sam’s neck and sucks, feels the rapidfire heartbeat, the blood under the skin rising under his teeth and tongue and he’s alive, Sam’s alive, Sam’s alive and safe because Dean’s got him. Dean’s got him.

Sam makes a noise – clenched out, whine, and Dean rolls his hips that way again. Can’t help it, can’t help wanting to claim each noise. Sam’s tight, so fucking tight and hot, velvet compressing oh so inviting around his cock, sucking him deeper into his brother’s body. Inside Sammy – slick and forbidden and perfect. Eden. He rolls his hips hard and sure and punches more sounds from his little brother, bitten off and trying so hard to be quiet. It turns Dean on like mad. Hands rove Sam’s sides, pull him up and position him so he can go deeper, Sam's legs stretched back, Dean curled over him, panting into his hair, his neck.

There’s a smell, a flavor, and Dean’s nose is next to Sam’s ear, slides it up and finds the tear track down Sam’s temple, licks it. Licks the other side too, sucks just a little on his temple, completely out of hand. Shushes Sam, so quiet the demons won’t hear, doesn’t slow his rhythm. Jaw to jaw, stubble burn, Sam’s cut cheekbone pressed to his cheek.

“ _Dee_ – ”

Fuck, Sammy. He shifts, gets one hand free and tangles it in Sam’s hair, kisses him and it’s all tongue, all panted breaths. All " _Sammy"_ whispered out between their lips.

He’s getting close, piston-fast into Sam now, so good skin to skin and he’s never done this raw, never imagined his brother’s body could feel this fucking perfect and tight and god hot. So fucking hot. Clenching, jesus, Dean’s gonna blow. 

Pulls back, hands snap to Sam’s waist, hold him steady as he snaps out the last of what it takes to drive him over that edge, eyes on Sam’s the whole time. Fuck. Eyes roll back, groans, and it takes over, balls tight, base of his cock, the head, whole thing and he’s shooting, losing himself inside his brother, pumping it into him with a wet slap of skin on skin, slick thrusts as he starts to shudder with the release, vision whiting out for a just a sec as he pants, swallows. Starts to pull out before he’s even done, gotta finish this, gotta protect Sam, dick giving a last spurt against Sam’s fluttering hole, debauched, cum sliding out already.

Goddamn but he is gorgeous.

Dean sits back on his heels, heaves in air but he’s got no time for afterglow, for anything. Turns to Meg with his cheeks still flushed from orgasm, eyes probably dark with it still.

“Satisfied?”

Her own eyes are alight, pure delight. Desire. She grins, wicked, cheeks full and little head bobble as she responds. “Very.”

He swallows, grabs his discarded tee and drops it over Sam’s dick as Sam relaxes his thighs, lowers his legs. Basic coverage. Dean moves to stand, tucking himself away.

“The cuffs. Now.”

“Sure thing,” Eyes mock him, widen with her smirk like he’s the butt of some joke. He knows he is – a cosmic one. Really doesn’t take Meg to tell him that. She tosses him the key and he moves out from between Sam’s legs, one wrist, the other, helps Sam sit with a hand on his shoulder and Sam hisses, back against the busted radiator, game face slipping into place. Ready to fight his way out of here still, if he has to.

Attaboy.

Dean drags over his jeans for him, his boots. Turns away like privacy could possible exist after that, knees pop when he stands, dick needs cleaning tucked away inside his boxers. Both arms are aching from the way the demons held him earlier, can’t even guess the world of hurt Sam’s in.

“It’s about time you leave.”

“Giving orders, Dean? That's rich.” Meg wanders across the room, playing with the demon knife, tip against the tip of one of her fingers, just a drop of blood slipping down it. Bitch. “We’ll get out of your hair. But I’m going to give you a present as we do.”

Dean shouts no, moving before he registers it, but Meg is closer and faster and she manages to lodge the knife straight into Bobby’s stomach. The demon inside his skin looks at her in shock, betrayal, and her grin is wide, eyes excited. There’s a flash under Bobby’s skin, burnt dead demon smoke, and Dean’s almost there to catch him when he falls, eyes human-normal and shocked.

“Let’s go, boys.” Meg doesn’t even look back, signals to her demon mates and they’re out the door, Sam swearing behind Dean, rushing over, checking on Bobby. He needs a hospital. They need more clothes. The demons are going for the Michael sword, probably already there. Dean’s close to breaking.

A solid four hours. That’s all he’s asking. Tonight’s going to be another sleepless one.

\----

_I have a task for you._

The words slipped into her ear and down her spine. The demon who’d adopted the name Meg for this skin shivered.

_Anything._

_Isolate Sam Winchester._

She swallowed in her human skin, transfixed on the spot, cold tendrils inside and around, not just the meatsuit but her truer form, smoke and mist turning to some type of fog, chill inside this body.

_I'll be more than glad to kill De –_

_No. Do not martyr the elder._

_But his brother won’t –_

She inhaled sharply at the seizing cold inside, her misted form almost solid in places, ice. Anger.

She held that breath, denounced her own excuses, casted around for a way to explain. She pulled up thoughts, memories of walking in Sam’s skin. Sam’s delicious skin, strong and sure, hardened, powerful. But Dean, Dean dogging his heels, covering his murder, refusing to denounce Sam for his violence, his corruption. Anything for his Sammy.

 _How?_ She asked instead of excusing. _How can I separate Sam from his brother?_

Like she was the one being possessed, thoughts and memories were pulled up and scoured, played out and perused: Dean taking in the sight of blood on Sam’s clothing, wide-eyed and worried. Dean trashing a computer. Her with Sammy’s mouth begging his big brother to kill him. Dean chanting an exorcism over her form, determined to save his precious babydoll brother.

Her insides thawed. Her stomach warmed as tendrils of cold retreat to her extremities, slid up her neck toward her ear. Another shiver down her spine, gooseflesh all alight on her vessel’s skin. Whisper in her ear, as though he was really there beside her.

_Use that against them. Overprotective brothers… always believe they know what’s best._

**Author's Note:**

> This was written as a pure id fic because I needed to get something out before I combusted while trying to write some more drawn out introspective pieces. My current go-to id-fic go-to is Sam noncon and let’s not examine that. 
> 
> I also wrote this in a single day, un-betaed and barely edited, so any and all typos and mistakes are mine alone. Not even quite sure if the narrative creates a sense of build and flow but I'm too sleepy to restructure so this is what we're going with.
> 
> Also -- the start of season 5 doesn’t get near enough attention from the fandom. This is literally as brittle as they’ve ever been, and there's so much to explore there. Most fics I've seen dealing with this are attempted fix-its (especially of the accursed voicemail). This… isn’t that. This is pouring kersone on the bonfire. Sorry not sorry?


End file.
